


sunlight that surrounds you

by fangirl_squee, madelinestarr



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, background samot/samothes, goddess!rosana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelinestarr/pseuds/madelinestarr
Summary: Hadrian has always been a man of faith. This applies to his heart as much as other aspects of his life.





	sunlight that surrounds you

**Author's Note:**

> [maddie tweeted about rosana being a goddess](https://twitter.com/madeline_starr/status/865165955030171648) and so obvs we had to write about that

Rosana walks away from the pantheon of gods - her family - feeling their eyes at her back. Some are hurt: it feels like the sting of a betrayal for her to shed her powers like a cloak and leave it at their feet, discarding cosmic powers for the love of a mortal man.

 

She smiles, closing her eyes as she tilts her face up to the warmth of the sun. It’s a farewell, of sorts. 

 

“Thank you, brother.”

 

Samothes, perhaps, understands her best in this regard. He, too, has felt the grasp of love tighten around his chest and sink deep into his heart. His eyes were sadder than those of their siblings, but he had only nodded, once, when she had told them of her decision.

 

She could have followed his path, pulling Hadrian into their world as Samothes had pulled Samot, but Hadrian is so very  _ mortal _ . He has always been a man of faith and his heart, his love, works no differently. Rosana does not think he would adapt well to being a figure of worship, a being with unlimited power.

 

He would have tried, if she had asked it of him, but the separation that immortality brings would not have sit well upon his shoulders. Hadrian is as much a man of the people as he is a man of his faith, and she would not take that from him.

 

Hadrian lives in a small house near his church, his rooms clean and sparsely furnished. He had made many of the items himself, an act of devotion to Samothes. He seemed embarrassed by the plainness of the rooms, the first time she had visited him, but she does not need rich furs and golden thrones to be worshiped. She needs only Hadrian for that. 

 

She has only Hadrian for that, now.

 

She has been worshiped well enough here in these rooms to be satisfied many times over. Hadrian says her name more reverently than any prayer. He stays on his knees as long as she asks it of him and seems glad for it, her body more divine to him than any holy wine.  

 

The others think she will miss her life among them, and perhaps she will, in time, but not today. Today she will look upon Hadrian's face as his mortal equal, and feel the warmth of his body sink deep into her, and feel more of a divine being than she ever has wielding power in her hands. She is born anew in this small, plain room on this small, plain bed into a mortal life.

 

Hadrian has always been favoured by the gods, but now he shall have her mortal favour as well.

 

Mortal life takes some adjusting to. The day-to-day of it, remembering to eat, to drink, to sleep - there’s so many small actions to do, it is a wonder anyone has time to build cities, to plow fields, to wage war. When she says as much to Hadrian, he laughs, and pulls her close to him. His cheek feels warm where he leans it against the top of her head.

 

“I will remind you,” says Hadrian.

 

He does, coming home from the church for his midday meal, trying his best to recreate food of the gods with what they have available at the markets that day. He helps her wash hair, kneeling beside the tub to comb sweet smelling shampoos through it as she stretches her legs out of the soapy water. Hadrian averts his gaze unless she directs him to look, although now it is less because of the godly aspect within her and more to do with Hadrian’s own deference.

 

Other mortal experiences are not quite as enjoyable. Grief, hunger, and exhaustion are not  _ new  _ experiences, but they are newly strong - overpowering her in this small body. It makes her skin feel right, too small to hold all of her in. She accidentally scalds her skin that first night, holding her hand under too-hot water. Hadrian is gentle as he runs cold water over it. 

 

“You must be more careful,” he says. His eyes are full of his worries. 

 

Rosana nods, flexing her hand under the cool water, marvelling at the fading tingle of pain. Hadrian presses a kiss to the back of her hand as the cold water flows over it. It does not remove the pain, but later when Rosana feels the faint throb of her hand she thinks of Hadrian’s kiss rather than the pain of the hot water.

 

Other pains are less tangible. Her father, dying slowly, out in the woods so very far from where she now lives. It weighs heavily on her, a different kind of pain, the kind that distracts her during the day and keeps her awake during the nights. In her constant worrying she forgets to eat, making her snap in frustration at Hadrian over nothing. She forgets so often that she collapses at his feet outside the market, Hadrian's worried voice echoing as her vision blurs. 

 

He dutifully feeds her broth for a week, like one bringing twice daily offerings to a shrine. Although she knows he has much to do, sits beside her on the bed that he made for her as a wedding present, slowly reminding her to drink water as he quietly reads to her from her own holy book, now a relic of a forgotten God. She hear her own words anew in his voice. 

 

She sleeps a lot for the next week, and vaguely recalls her brother Samot visiting them, hovering outside their bedroom to speak alone with Hadrian. Samot has always had an interest in Hadrian that Rosana has always been amenable to satisfying, but Samothes is quite a jealous god. She thinks she smirks in her sleep, but when she asks Hadrian later, he is too quiet for any good story.

 

“You’re an aunt, my love,” he says, slowly over dinner the next evening.

 

She laughs, loud and brilliant and Hadrian, as always, cannot look away. Her dear brother, always making something new. 

 

“Samothes and Samot, they... they made something, a child, while you were asleep. I don’t quite understand how, and Samot, for being a God of Learning, isn’t very good at describing the concept of divine beings just creating something from Nothing and...”

 

Rosana puts a hand on his forearm, and Hadrian breathes out. She taps a small rhythm onto his skin: his own heartbeat. He is calmer for her touch but still too quiet for her liking. There was a time she could have plucked the thoughts from his head at her will, but that time is no longer. Now she must tease the words from him slowly and take it on faith that they are true to his heart. For the first time, such a task worries her. 

 

She turns to him after they lie together in their small bed. He is still, but awake, his tired eyes looking up at the bare ceiling. 

 

Rosana shifts, laying a hand over his heart. The steady beat of it is as reassuring and unwavering as Hadrian himself. She presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw and he looks at her, tiredness leaving his eyes a little. 

 

“Hadrian,” says Rosana softly, “would you like for us to make a child?”

 

Hadrian is quiet for a moment, and Rosana can feel his steady breaths, in and out, under her hand. 

 

“I… yes,” says Hadrian, “yes, I would.”

 

Rosana smiles, raising herself up, pressing the lines of their bodies against each other. Hadrian eyes flutter closed as she presses a kiss to his forehead, a blessing. Hadrian's touch is as gentle as it ever was, hands that are rough from battle run lightly over her sides. 

 

That, at least, has not changed. Even when she could not be hurt by mortal means, Hadrian touched her as though she was as fragile as spun sugar. Hadrian's touch makes her feel like her old self, powerful and shining. It is not unwelcome, when such a feeling comes from him. 

 

Rosana cups his cheeks, feeling the rough stubble on her palm for a moment before she kisses him. Hadrian gasps her name as she sinks into him and feels like a thousand followers praising her name. 

 

_Perhaps_ , thinks Rosana, watching Hadrian's face as she rises and falls above him, _there is merit to talking the words of another on faith._

 

She thinks a lot about names as the small, new life grow inside of her. Names are important. Names have power.

 

If Hadrian has opinions about their child's name he doesn't push them, offering small suggestions people have passed on to him, giving little of his own thoughts on the matter away. 

 

Rosana thinks, briefly, about calling their son Alexander, before discarding it. Hadrian is not the sort of man concerned with legacy, and it feels too much to put upon their child's shoulders. 

 

Samothes visits her in her dreams. She teases him a little about being too busy to visit with her properly, but she thinks they are both glad to be able to avoid the fuss such a visit would bring. In the morning there is a crib in the nursery when there was not one before, the dark wood gleaming in the morning light. It's warm to the touch and smells a little like volcanic ash, like home. 

 

Rosana turns to face the morning sun and smiles. 

 

The birth is fast, a blur of pain and the movement of those around her. Only Hadrian is a steady presence at her side, holding her hand, wiping a cool cloth across her forehead and neck with his free hand as he kneels at the bedside, his touch no less reverent though this is certainly the most mortal she has ever been, ever felt. 

 

When she holds her son, sweaty and exhausted, he looks up at her with wide eyes.

 

A name flutters through her mind. 

 

“Benjamin,” says Rosana.

 

Hadrian hums, and presses a kiss to her head. She leans back against him, enjoying the solid warmth at her back. He reaches out and hesitantly touches her son,  _ their  _ son, on the cheek.

 

“Benjamin,” says Hadrian softly, “yes.”

 

The creation of something new in this world has never been foreign to her; she has rewitten time again and again to her liking, something from nothing over and over again. 

 

Seeing her son,  _ her son _ , in the arms of her husband ( _ her husband _ ) as he gently hums an old hymn to her feels different though, feels  _ new _ . 

 

The notes of her hymns used to rise above churches and midwives’ homes and the worship would invigorate her, give her more strength and power. Here, it is softer. The late afternoon light filters in from the window as Hadrian rocks back in forth in the chair he made himself, peace radiating off him. Benjamin stares up at him, wide-eyed and quiet. 

 

Divine power could never fill her as this could. Rosana drinks a hot cup of tea, and watches them. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter/tumblr: mariusperkins | madelinestarr


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